When did you drop from your perch?
And from what sinister heights
That I should come upon you
Bespoke for love,
Parts everywhere and sharp enough
To stitch into my woolen hide?
Spindly limbs choke the air,
More weaver than painter,
More executioner than poet.
What was your first encounter
With freedom and under which
Pseudonym did she court you?
Do your glib songs sound wooden
Without the reverberations of gangways
To disperse their ambling echoes?
Even morass invokes an audience
The shrinkage of a heart only
Fourteen centimeters to start instates
Its own curious following.
How good women crave persecution,
A tyrant that ravishes his calling.
A sonder falls upon
My neck like an umbilicus.
Cement slabs sprout upward
As if searching for the sun
Yes even the dead had lives
More prevalent and less dismissive
Than my own. One day my shell
Will fall away and I’ll worm
My way deep into the feculent folds
Of my only living mother.
I am a womb full of bleeding gums
And mesh-draped particulars.
I swallow only the splinters
Never the hatchet itself.
I will not rest until I’ve seen
The face behind the mask,
The child whose suffering
Has not yet been extinguished
And can never be extinguished
So long as his heart is a forge.